Lu Xun Complete Works/en/Fengbo

The Storm

(风波)

From the collection Call to Arms (《呐喝》)

Author: Lu Xun (鲁迅)

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On the earthen clearing by the river, the sun was gradually withdrawing its amber light. The leaves of the tallow trees at the water's edge, parched and dry, were only now catching their breath; a few spotted-legged mosquitoes hummed and danced below. From the chimneys of the riverside farmhouses, cooking smoke was thinning out; women and children sprinkled water on the earthen ground before their doors and set out small tables and low stools — everyone knew it was time for supper.

Old men and menfolk sat on the low stools, fanning themselves with large plantain-leaf fans and chatting idly; children ran about like the wind or squatted under the tallow trees gambling with pebbles. The women brought out jet-black steamed dried vegetables and golden-yellow rice, steaming hot. A pleasure-boat of literati passed along the river; a man of letters, moved to poetic rapture, exclaimed, "Without a care in the world — this is truly the joy of country life!"

But the man of letters' words were somewhat at odds with the facts, precisely because he had not heard what Granny Nine-jin was saying. At that moment, Granny Nine-jin was in a towering rage, banging her tattered fan against the stool leg:

"I've lived to seventy-nine — that's long enough. I don't want to see this ruination anymore — I'd be better off dead! Supper's about to be served, and she's still eating roasted beans, eating the whole family into poverty!"

Her great-granddaughter Six-jin, clutching a handful of beans, came running from across the way; seeing the scene, she dashed straight to the riverbank, hid behind the tallow tree, stuck out her little head with its two pigtails, and shouted, "That old hag who won't die!"

Granny Nine-jin was indeed very old but not yet very deaf; however, she had not heard the child's words, and went on saying to herself, "It truly gets worse with every generation!"

This village had a rather peculiar custom: when a woman gave birth, they liked to weigh the baby on a scale and use the weight in jin as its nickname. Ever since Granny Nine-jin had celebrated her fiftieth birthday, she had gradually become a chronic complainer, always saying that in her youth the weather had not been this hot and the beans not this hard — in short, the present age was all wrong. Especially since Six-jin weighed three jin less than her great-grandmother and one jin less than her father Seven-jin — this was truly an irrefutable example. So she said once more with emphasis, "It truly gets worse with every generation!"

Her daughter-in-law, Seven-jin's wife, had just come to the table carrying the food basket; she slammed it down on the table and said indignantly, "There you go again, old mother. When Six-jin was born, didn't she weigh six jin and five liang? And your scale is a private scale, a heavy-weighted scale at eighteen liang per jin. Using the standard sixteen-liang scale, our Six-jin would weigh over seven jin. And I doubt the great-grandfather and grandfather were really exactly nine and eight jin — the scale they used was probably fourteen liang..."

"Each generation worse than the last!"

Seven-jin's wife had not yet answered when she suddenly saw Seven-jin coming round the alley corner; she immediately changed direction and shouted at him, "You corpse! Why are you only coming back now? Where did you go to die? People are waiting for you to start dinner!"

Although Seven-jin lived in the countryside, he had long harbored certain aspirations to advancement. For three generations from his grandfather onward, the family had not touched a hoe handle; he too, as usual, helped steer a passenger boat, once a day — in the morning from Lu Town into the city and in the evening back to Lu Town — so he was fairly well-informed about current affairs: for example, where the Thunder God had struck dead a centipede demon; where a girl had given birth to a yaksha. Among the villagers, he was indeed a personage of some standing. But eating supper without a lamp in summer was still a country custom he observed, so coming home late was grounds for a scolding.

Seven-jin held in one hand his six-foot-plus smoking pipe of spotted bamboo with its ivory mouthpiece and white copper bowl, head lowered, and came walking slowly to sit on the low stool. Six-jin took the opportunity to slip out and sit beside him, calling him "Papa." Seven-jin did not answer.

"Each generation worse than the last!" said Granny Nine-jin.

Seven-jin slowly raised his head and sighed, "The Emperor has taken the Dragon Throne."

Seven-jin's wife was stunned for a moment, then suddenly exclaimed as if a light had dawned, "That's wonderful! Doesn't that mean there'll be an imperial amnesty again?"

Seven-jin sighed once more, "I don't have a queue."

"Does the Emperor want queues?"

"The Emperor wants queues."

"How do you know?" Seven-jin's wife asked anxiously, in haste.

"Everyone at the Xianheng Tavern says so."

Seven-jin's wife now felt instinctively that things were not good, for the Xianheng Tavern was a well-informed place. Her glance fell on Seven-jin's bare head, and she could not help getting angry — blaming him, resenting him, begrudging him. Then suddenly she was overcome with despair; she filled a bowl with rice, shoved it in front of Seven-jin, and said, "You'd better eat your rice quickly! Is a long face going to make a queue grow?"

The sun had withdrawn its last light; coolness was rising darkly over the water. On the earthen clearing, the clatter of bowls and chopsticks filled the air, and beads of sweat stood out on everyone's back. When Seven-jin's wife had finished her third bowl of rice and chanced to look up, her heart began pounding uncontrollably. Through the tallow-tree leaves she saw the short, fat Zhao Qi-ye walking across the log bridge — and he was wearing his sapphire-blue bamboo-cloth long gown.

Zhao Qi-ye was the owner of the Maoyuan Tavern in the neighboring village and the sole distinguished personage and scholar within a thirty-li radius; being learned, he also carried something of the odor of a loyalist of the old order. He owned more than ten volumes of the "Romance of the Three Kingdoms" with Jin Shengtan's commentary, and often sat reading them word by word. He could not only recite the names of the Five Tiger Generals but even knew that Huang Zhong's courtesy name was Hansheng and Ma Chao's was Mengqi. After the revolution, he had coiled his queue on top of his head like a Daoist priest, and often sighed that if Zhao Zilong were alive, the world would not have fallen into such disorder. Seven-jin's wife had sharp eyes and had already noticed that today Zhao Qi-ye was no longer a Daoist — he had a smooth-shaved scalp with a black top; she knew at once that the Emperor must have taken the Dragon Throne, that queues must be required, and that Seven-jin must be in extreme danger. For Zhao Qi-ye's bamboo-cloth gown was not worn lightly; in three years he had worn it only twice: once when his adversary, pockmarked Asi, fell ill, and once when Master Lu, who had once smashed his tavern, died. This was the third time — it must again mean something to celebrate for him and calamity for his enemies.

Seven-jin's wife remembered that two years ago, Seven-jin had gotten drunk and called Zhao Qi-ye a "low-born wretch" — so at this moment she immediately sensed Seven-jin's danger, and her heart began pounding furiously.

Zhao Qi-ye came walking along; everyone seated at their meals stood up, tapping their rice bowls with chopsticks and saying, "Master Qi-ye, please eat with us!" Qi-ye nodded to each and said "Please, please," but walked straight to Seven-jin's table. The Seven-jins hastened to greet him; Qi-ye smiled and said "Please, please" while carefully examining their food.

"What fragrant dried vegetables — have you heard the news?" asked Zhao Qi-ye, standing behind Seven-jin and facing Seven-jin's wife.

"The Emperor has taken the Dragon Throne," said Seven-jin.

Seven-jin's wife looked at Qi-ye's face and forced a smile: "The Emperor has taken the Dragon Throne — when will there be an imperial amnesty?"

"Imperial amnesty? — Well, there will probably be an amnesty sooner or later." At this point, Qi-ye's expression suddenly turned stern: "But where is your Seven-jin's queue? His queue? That is a serious matter. You know the saying from the time of the Long-Hairs: keep your hair, lose your head; keep your head, lose your hair..."

Seven-jin and his wife had never learned to read and did not quite grasp the subtleties of this classical allusion; but since the learned Master Qi-ye had said so, the matter was naturally extremely grave and beyond remedy. It was as if they had received a death sentence — their ears buzzed, and they could not utter another word.

"Each generation worse than the last —" Granny Nine-jin, already indignant, seized the opportunity to address Zhao Qi-ye: "These modern Long-Hairs just cut off people's queues — neither monks nor priests. Were the Long-Hairs of the old days like that? I've lived to seventy-nine, long enough. The Long-Hairs of old days wound whole bolts of red satin around their heads, trailing down, trailing down, all the way to the heels; the princes wore yellow satin, trailing down, yellow satin; red satin, yellow satin — I've lived long enough, seventy-nine years."

Seven-jin's wife stood up and muttered, "What can be done? A whole household of old and young, all depending on him for a living..."

Zhao Qi-ye shook his head: "There's nothing to be done. For not having a queue, what punishment is due — it's all written down, item by item, in the books. No matter who lives in his household."

When Seven-jin's wife heard that it was written in books, her despair was complete. In her frantic helplessness, she suddenly turned her hatred back on Seven-jin. She pointed at the tip of his nose with her chopsticks: "This corpse brought it on himself! When the rebellion started, I told him: don't steer the boat, don't go to the city. But he just had to go die in the city, roll into the city, and once there they cut off his queue. It used to be a sleek, jet-black queue, and now he looks neither monk nor priest. This convict brought it on himself — and dragged us into it! This walking-corpse of a convict..."

The villagers had seen Zhao Qi-ye arrive in the village, hurriedly finished eating, and gathered around Seven-jin's table. Seven-jin, knowing he was a personage of standing, found it most unseemly to be thus abused by his wife before the crowd, so he raised his head and said slowly:

"You talk so easily today, but back then you..."

"You walking-corpse of a convict...!"

Among the onlookers, Auntie Ba-yi was the kindest soul; holding her two-year-old posthumous child, she was standing beside Seven-jin's wife watching the spectacle. Unable to bear it any longer, she hastened to mediate: "Sister Seven-jin, let it go. No one is immortal — who can foretell the future? Even you, Sister Seven-jin, didn't you also say at the time that not having a queue wasn't really so shameful? Besides, the magistrate at the yamen hasn't even issued a proclamation yet..."

Seven-jin's wife had not finished listening before both her ears turned bright red. She turned her chopsticks around and pointed them at Auntie Ba-yi's nose: "What kind of talk is that! Auntie Ba-yi, I still consider myself a reasonable person — would I say something so addled and senseless? At that time I cried for three whole days — everyone saw it; even little Six-jin cried..." Six-jin had just finished a big bowl of rice and was holding the empty bowl out, clamoring for more. Seven-jin's wife, already in a terrible temper, jabbed her chopsticks straight down between Six-jin's two pigtails and bellowed, "Who asked you to butt in! You little husband-stealing widow!"

Crash! — the empty bowl fell from Six-jin's hand, happened to strike the corner of a brick, and instantly cracked into a large gap. Seven-jin jumped up, picked up the broken bowl, fitted the pieces together and examined them, then cursed, "Damn it!" and slapped Six-jin to the ground. Six-jin lay there crying; Granny Nine-jin took her hand, repeating "Each generation worse than the last," and the two walked away together.

Auntie Ba-yi was also furious and said loudly, "Sister Seven-jin, you beat people with the club of spite..."

Zhao Qi-ye had been watching with a smile; but since Auntie Ba-yi had said "the magistrate at the yamen hasn't even issued a proclamation," he had become somewhat angry. By now he had come out from behind the table, and continued: "'Club of spite' — what does that amount to? The soldiers will be here soon. Do you know who is escorting the Emperor this time? Marshal Zhang! Marshal Zhang is a descendant of Zhang Yide of Yan — with his eighteen-foot serpent spear, he has the valor that ten thousand men cannot withstand! Who can resist him?" He clenched both fists as if grasping an invisible spear and advanced several steps toward Auntie Ba-yi: "Can you resist him?"

Auntie Ba-yi was shaking with rage, clutching her child, when she suddenly saw Zhao Qi-ye, face streaming with oily sweat, eyes glaring, heading straight for her; she was terrified, did not dare finish what she was saying, and turned and left. Zhao Qi-ye followed; the crowd blamed Auntie Ba-yi for meddling and made way. Several who had cut their queues and were growing them back quickly hid behind others, afraid he might notice them. Zhao Qi-ye did not investigate closely; he passed through the crowd, suddenly ducked behind the tallow tree, called out "Can you resist him!" strode onto the log bridge, and went off with great swagger.

The villagers stood dumbly, calculating in their minds, and all felt they truly could not withstand Zhang Yide; they therefore concluded that Seven-jin would surely lose his life. Since Seven-jin had broken imperial law, they recalled how he usually held forth about city news with his long pipe, looking so proud — and so they felt a certain satisfaction at his transgression. They seemed to want to offer some commentary, but could think of nothing to say. After a confused buzzing, the mosquitoes bumped against bare torsos and retreated under the tallow tree; the villagers also gradually dispersed homeward, shut their doors, and went to sleep. Seven-jin's wife muttered to herself, gathered the utensils, table, and stools, went inside, shut the door, and went to sleep.

Seven-jin carried the broken bowl inside and sat on the threshold to smoke; but he was so worried that he forgot about smoking — the fire in the white copper bowl of his six-foot-plus spotted-bamboo pipe with its ivory mouthpiece gradually went dark. In his mind he felt the situation was extremely critical; he tried to think of solutions, to make plans, but everything was hopelessly muddled and could not be strung together: "Queue — where's my queue? Eighteen-foot serpent spear. Each generation worse than the last! Emperor on the Dragon Throne. The broken bowl must be taken to the city to be mended. Who can resist him? It's written in the books, item by item. Damn it all...!"

The next morning, Seven-jin went as usual from Lu Town by boat into the city, and returned to Lu Town in the evening, again carrying his six-foot-plus pipe and a rice bowl. At supper he told Granny Nine-jin that the bowl had been mended in the city; because the crack was large, it needed sixteen copper rivets, at three wen each, a total of forty-eight wen.

Granny Nine-jin said most unhappily, "Each generation worse than the last — I've lived long enough. Three wen for a rivet! Were the rivets of the old days like this? The rivets of the old days were... I've lived seventy-nine years —"

Thereafter, although Seven-jin continued going to the city daily as usual, the household atmosphere remained somewhat gloomy; the villagers mostly avoided him and no longer came to hear the news he brought from the city. Seven-jin's wife was not in good spirits either, and often called him "convict."

After more than ten days, Seven-jin came home from the city and found his wife in high spirits; she asked him, "Did you hear anything in the city?"

"Nothing."

"Has the Emperor taken the Dragon Throne or not?"

"They didn't say."

"No one at the Xianheng Tavern either?"

"No one."

"I think the Emperor has certainly not taken the Dragon Throne. Today when I passed Zhao Qi-ye's shop, I saw him sitting and reading again, with his queue coiled on top again, and not wearing the long gown."

"..."

"Don't you think he hasn't taken the Throne?"

"I think not."

And so Seven-jin was once again given by his wife and the villagers the appropriate respect and proper treatment. In summer they still ate on the earthen clearing outside their door; everyone greeted them with smiles. Granny Nine-jin had long since celebrated her eightieth birthday and was still discontented and in good health. Six-jin's two little pigtails had grown into one big braid; although she had recently had her feet bound, she could still help Seven-jin's wife with the work, and hobbled back and forth across the earthen clearing carrying the rice bowl with its eighteen copper rivets.

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English: Lu Xun Complete Works